


pack a punch

by portions_forfox



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Angst, Beatlemania, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-26
Updated: 2012-06-26
Packaged: 2017-11-08 15:08:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/444505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/portions_forfox/pseuds/portions_forfox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>passive-aggressive (adj): of or relating to a personality that harbours aggressive emotions while behaving in a calm or detached manner</p>
            </blockquote>





	pack a punch

**Author's Note:**

> Excuse the lack of British-speak, ta.

1.

 

this is how it('s supposed to) work, you—  
  
scream and you cry and you kick at the wall, because the thing about walls is that they won't kick back. you yell and you wail, you throw somethings and nothing and you take it out on the ones you love, because that's, you know. that's what you do.  
  
and he's not helping, is he, the stupid bloody cunt, sitting there leant forward on that couch with his elbows on his knees and his eyes a steady beam on the floor five feet in front of him. the yellowed light form the dim lamp frames his hard-set face—it's dark outside your windows—and that's it, that's exactly it: his face is blank. you've just tossed over his father's fucking kitchen table, you're fucking screaming about god knows what (exactly what) and all he can do is sit there and stare at the ground.  
  
it's not such a far stretch that you're going to take this out on him.  
  
"well?" you say, your voice folding out from your lips like ripped fabric. "is that what you're gonna do, you're just gonna—you're just gonna do nothing?" anger tears through you the only way it knows how, without restraint, and you're lurching forward now till you're right in front of him (he won't, he still won't meet your eyes). "how can you just  _sit_ there," you start, voice rising up loud like you don't want an answer, "how can you just fucking  _sit_ there when your mother is dead?" you breathe in, chest heaving, and you realize it's a valid question. now that you know—now that you know what it's like. how in the fucking world can he just _sit_ there. "huh, paul?" you're shouting. "how?"  
  
it takes him a minute. always does.  
  
finally he looks up and meets your seething glare head-on, and your heart is pounding and there's a rush in your ears and all you want to do is rip the fucking world to pieces for taking her away from you, but _paul's_ face hasn't changed at all. blank, the bastard. blank.  
  
"you learn," is all he says, and you realize, realize kind of like a sucker punch—he's been living this way for years.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
2.  
  
  
  
they call him the cute one, and nobody hates it more than you. nobody knows it's more true.  
  
paul's always been a charmer. where you sloshed and swore and fucked around he trailed behind, apologizing for his arse of a best mate, picking up the shards, shaking hands,  _hi, i'm paul mccartney._ you won the hearts of girls who liked the brooder in you, the pain and the anger and the _tormented musician_ , an image you haven't been so good at diffusing.  
  
but paul, he had that smile, that sweet round face, the arching brows, the fucking wide bright cow eyes. people had a way of believing he was being straight with them, but the truth is he's been playing a subtler game than you have all along.  
  
the four of you come away from a press conference and paul's still shooting glances over his shoulder, winking and laughing, flashing that dazzling, now-infamous mccartney grin. and you could punch him, you could just punch him.  
  
the interviewer had been a prick, an absolute entitled arsehole, and afterwards he asks you all (paul, really, just paul; the type of person people want at their parties) if you'd like to come to a little soiree he's having, nothing too big, just a couple of friends is all.  
  
you're about to make a cutting remark about the ratio of arsehole-to-party-invites-accepted in your experience, but paul knows you too well by now, and before your smirk has even fully gnarled your ready lips there's a hand on your elbow, brown eyes pointedly not meeting yours.  
  
"yeah, sure, we'd love to," paul beams, and george skirts up his eyes from lighting a cigarette to gaze from you to paul and back again. looks back down again when he sees it's the wisest move.  
  
before you leave for the party (because you're going, you're definitely going, it doesn't matter how whingy and sarcastic you are, how much of an incommunicative cock you'll be for the rest of the night—you're going), you pull paul aside and spit something like,  _why_. "why do you do that."  
  
"do what?" he replies, voice still unfazed as he peeks out from behind the alcove, neck craning to see if there's anyone worth anything back in the press room.  
  
"that," you hiss. "accept invites from fucking posh arseholes just because you think it'll make us look good. it's a fucking sell-out, paul, is what it is."  
  
"well," paul sighs, and you wonder fleetingly when he got to be the one to sigh at you, exasperated, like a parent or an older brother. you hate it. "because ..." and he's walking away now, doesn't even have the decency to glance back over his shoulder at you; lights up a cigarette and peels in a drag before letting his hand fall down to his side, pale fingers curled elegantly around the fag. smoke sweeps out behind him as his footsteps echo down the empty hallway, tracing back to you, you. "we have to."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
4.  
  
  
  
george has that thing where he can feel when the tension is building to a peak —he's the type of person who's learned to adapt to survive, because, you know. he's had to. you're not sure what it is that tips him off, but he always seems to be flicking up a glance through hooded eyes and thick dark hair when your narrowed eyes sear into the back of paul's head, or when paul addresses you in nonchalant one-liners without trailing his eyes from the paper, or when you're simmering, watching the way his hand glides through his mess of hair, fucking it up so the hairdressers will click their tongues at him later, and that's—that's what you want. you wish he'd fuck up more often.  
  
anyway, george picks up on it, and he's subtle in the way he quickly nods off to his room once you're back at the hotel, and ringo's eyes follow him down the hall (then, as a reflex, come back to dart from you to paul again) and he knows, just like that, to follow suit.  
  
when you snap, you snap like you did that night in paul's living room years and years and (not that many years) ago, yelling and screaming and kicking the wall, who doesn't kick back. "how can you stand it?" you demand to know, and soft pale light from the fucking expensive chandelier, the fucking useless piece-of-shit chandelier hanging overhead makes paul's face look younger than it is. deceiving. "how can you stand all these girls fucking screaming over the music, paul,  _our_ goddamn music, and how can you say you love the fans, you fucking worship the fans, and how can you  _stand_ all these posh entitled fuckers telling us what to do, what to wear, asking us their  _inane_ little questions on the radio, paul, _tell_ me how you can stand it. don't you just want to scream at them? huh?" chest heaves, face reddens. "huh, paul? don't you?"  
  
"john," says paul again, and it feels like the first in a very long time that he's said your name. feels like nostalgia in just a word. "it doesn't work like that."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
5.   
  
  
  
this is how it('s supposed to) work, you—  
  
get angry.  
  
paul's not angry, he's just quiet, and there's venom in that; venom in the way he sits and stares, venom in the way he won't ever say  _fuck this_ , venom in the way he shuffles for a fag and lets the smoke hang loose under the ceiling and his eyes slide shut every time you're finished fucking. venom in the way he plays the(ir) game, plays it so well he forgets how much he('s supposed to) hate it.  
  
and they say you're the mysterious one.


End file.
